The Unfortunate Ones

No one is coming. Scream as stridently as you can, screech as desperately as your faltering voice will allow, howl as despairingly as your lungs can bear, you may wail inconsolably until the tears streaming from your shrunken eyes no longer dampen your tumefied face.

But over here, no one will hear you. Here, the cries of the weak and marginalized are stifled by the roars of the powerful and wealthy. Here, the norms of society are imposed on the masses by the unenlightened. Here, the perpetrators decide the victims.

Your wings have been clipped, dear free bird. The flame which burned with a resolute passion in your hopeful eyes has been extinguished leaving behind ashes of ruin. The once-endless sky has shrunk and the clouds have lost their bounce. Once jubilant and purposeful, your voice evokes not change and revolution but serves as a grim reminder of the fate of those unfortunate ones who dare to progress in an unchanging society.

Blackened is the face of the unfortunate ones, tattered are their clothes and broken is their spirit. So scream as stridently as you can, but over here no one will hear you. 

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